


Komt Goed

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 03:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12289902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: Vincent has started his season-long loan at Fenerbahce, and it's going great so far. As much he wills himself not to look back on his wretched season at Tottenham Hotspur, he does, and thinks about Christian.





	Komt Goed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/gifts).



**[Fenerbahce, Istanbul Turkey,]**

_"I could have joined West Brom or Brighton," Janssen was quoted as saying by Fanatik. "What would have happened had I joined one of them? I do not want to think about it. I do not think about it."_  
**Fanatik, September 28, 2017**

 

If there had been one upside to this transfer to Fenerbahce, Vincent thought dourly, looking out the windows of his hired car as he got driven to training, was that he actually displaced a striker. 

It would have been a lot sweeter to savour if Roberto Soldado had been a _klootzak_ ; someone who still lived in the past and bragged about his glory days with the clubs he’d been at, or crowing over the honours he won as a part of _that_ Spanish team. Or... if he had been embittered by his experience at Tottenham in the Premier League and walked around not wanting to speak to anyone at Fenerbahce, it would have suited Vincent down to the ground. 

Unfortunately for Vincent’s mood, Soldado was the complete opposite. 

“You can call me Bobby, if it’s easier,” Soldado said when they’d first met at the training ground, his bearing courtly and a bit old-fashioned, skin tanned from the constant sun. “I don’t think I can offer you any advice on well, anything football,” Soldado- now Bobby- continued with a wry smile. “You know what to do, and how to put it in the _back of the net_ ,” he shrugged. “Just do more of it here.”

“Right.”

“For anything else, if you need advice -- I’m here, okay?” Bobby offered a hand in greeting. 

“Okay,” Vincent nodded, as he shook his hand. Nothing but to say, “Thanks.”

At least Robin van Persie was still van Persie. A bit bitter about the tail end of his footballing career, and his expulsion from Europe’s top leagues. Although professional about his duties here, he still outwardly seethed. Still wore his grudges like you wore the Oranje kit - you couldn’t hide away from the world, so might as well say _sod it_ , and rock the grudges like medals on a jacket. 

It was amazing, how after one season in England, the idioms and patterns of British English still clung to Vincent’s speech, like burrs on clothing. 

“Look,” Robin said one day, after he’d invited Vincent to his house in the quiet suburbs of Fenerbahce. Now out of commission with a knee injury, and impatiently waiting on it to heal, he’d invited Vincent to stop by. “There are worse clubs to be, and worse places to live. For the moment, anyway. I am not going to tell you to smile. If you don’t want to, don’t. That’s not what you’re paid for. Just find your form, and if you can, get the fuck out of here and back into the leagues that matter.”

Strangely, although Vincent liked Robin’s cutting honesty- it reminded him of home- he found himself drawn more to Bobby’s wounded dignity. 

Around the other players, he was warm enough, quick to joke in his musically accented English, and gamely attempted to speak Turkish, good-naturedly accepting the teasing he drew from the local players. 

They trained together under the bright warmth of the Turkish sun. The training different - not so much volume here as before- a bit more of the ball. Played on opposite five a sides, them on opposite sides more than not. 

The first time Vincent got the nod over Bobby into the starting XI, he’d expected a grim look, or some sort of chilled distance, but no, Bobby rocked up as decent as you dared to hope, with a friendly, “Congratulations, and good luck,” his smile still bright, brown eyes warm. This fifteen minutes before they were to go out, in their distinct navy and yellow kit. Vincent shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his eye on the digital clock on the wall over the passage to the field outside, as the time counted down before the live feed kicked in. 

Bobby had been down as one of the reserves, so he should have been outside, and not here. But he didn’t have to be here, didn’t even have to say to say what he did. Before Vincent got his head around to respond, the time clicked in, and he had to make his way to the field.

***

“You don’t seem to miss Tottenham,” Bobby said as they sat down in the cafeteria two days after the Istanbul derby.

It had been a brawl of a match with bite and fang; Besiktas players getting into his face, the shoving, the _edge_. The crowd’s loud, jittery, ugly jeers at each goal scored by the opposing side, shrieks of delight at the goals scored by the supporting side. 

Everything ugly: the referee throwing red cards around, players having to be shoved and pushed off the pitch. Yellow cards hailing from the sky on everyone, red and yellow dots peppered against their names. Not being able to hear his teammates as the din reverberated around the ground; the sound so overwhelming, it made his bones hum and ache. His eyes burning and tearing up from the smoke of the flares as they spilt the blackness of the sky overhead, into plumes of colour. Fenerbahce's flags the size of a ship’s sails all over the stadium with the navy and yellow stripes. 

Nobility and jealousy, so the story went, and Fenerbahce the only club in Turkey which inspired both. 

It had also been beautiful. 

One of the best experiences he’d had on a football pitch for a long time. At the end of the match, filled with happiness, and the _rightness_ of it all. Relief swamping him and moving him to near tears; he was now a striker who _scored goals_ again, he wanted to hug the world. 

Made do with a ball boy on the sidelines, and a call to his family later. His mother especially, because she understood how one’s chosen vocation could be cruel and unfair sometimes. His mum had done one better; took her shot, won at her sport and walked away, head high. 

He couldn’t do that. Not yet. 

He waved at Carlos Kameni, seated with Demirel - their team captain- and Ersu. The goalkeepers tended to stick together, and Vincent had asked Carlos about that once, during warm-ups before training, in their deep blue kit with the brilliant yellow trident stripes. 

“We eat together so that we can complain about you in peace,” Carlos replied. 

Vincent’s mood going from mellow to angry and confused. _What have I done?_ the words trembling at the tip of his tongue, ready to jump off into the wild. _Why not say it to my face before --_ Carlos grinned, his teeth white and straight against his dark skin. 

“It’s not just you, it’s _everyone_ ,” Carlos gestured at the training field around them, his hands already glove clad, and Vincent couldn’t help but smile too, knowing that he’d been the victim of a _wind up_. Like the kind that Ben and Chri-- that he’d been a victim of at Spurs sometimes. 

“Us goalies need a space to complain. Why doesn’t Skrtel trackback? He would save us a lot of trouble. And Souza...” he shook his head mournfully his smile gone. “A red card that we don’t need. We are goalies, not magicians. Human beings, not walls.”

“So I can’t sit with you?”

“Not when I’m eating with the goalies, no. We need our space to complain.”

“Okay,” Vincent nodded his understanding. 

Goalies were a strange bunch, no matter which club he’d played for at whatever level. They all had their quirks, and no matter how close a team might be, the goalies had their own secret code, separate from but equal to the rest of the team. He never understood their ways, and just accepted their reasons why, like one did the offside rule. 

“But if there’s a problem with me-” he began, wanting to clear the air between them. 

“Just keep on scoring, keep up your form,” Carlos said, just before the whistle blew, a signal that training was about to begin, and people had to now find their places. Carlos’ place to train with the goalies in another part of the ground. “That’s all we need. _Güle güle_.”

Vincent looked around his surroundings. The cafeteria filled with footballers seated down to lunch. Sometimes, depending on if the other sports clubs under the Fenerbahce umbrella, you’d see personalities from the other sports teams drifting in and around the grounds, just to see how the various parts of the whole operated. 

After a few moments, Vincent now back to Bobby, now in the middle of his _Imam Bayildi_ \- baked not fried- with a modified version of _Koefte_

“I’m only focused on this club, and winning trophies,” the phrase slipped from Vincent’s lips with ease. So smoothly done, Bobby started to grin- only for his features to freeze as the words hit home.

“Eeeehhh. Okay,” Bobby’s smile faltered. Dimmed. “I’m sorry I asked.”

***

Before Vincent arrived in Istanbul, he didn’t really know much about his new surroundings. For instance, Fenerbahce - the club- was actually named after the neighbourhood, Fenerbahce, and it was affectionately called, _Fener_.

 _I live on the Asian side of Istanbul_ , he wrote emails to his mother, who would then read them out to the rest of his family when they sat down to dinner in the early evenings. He did not want them to worry, wanted them to know that he was okay, especially after -well. The past didn't matter, because only the present did. Not that Vincent was one for emails, but knowing how much his mother loved them, preferring them to texts, nor did she care to look at his private Instagram account for all his goings on. So Vincent adjusted, he wrote to her about the neighbourhoods he’d explore on his afternoons off, with pictures attached at the bottom of the email. The history of Istanbul, more Constantinople, the mighty city which straddles Europe and Asia, one foot in each continent, a key stop on the historic Silk Road. 

Vincent lived in a flat of a subdivided renovated traditional greek house, fitted with the modern amenities, and nearer to the stadium than the suburbs because he liked it that way. 

He’d walked around his neighbourhood, passing veiled housewives with cellphones at their ears. Men seated around tables in little gardens just off the main roads, sipping boiling _cay_ in glasses, and playing backgammon with a passion and strategy that Vincent could only admire. He had tried _cay_ once; the tea black, strong and sweet, as pungent as good coffee, sugar cube dissolving under his tongue. He didn’t have time to do so today. 

From a side shop, he bought fresh goat’s cheese, honey and dried apricots, and slipped the items into the backpack he’d taken to carrying around with him because it beat walking around with canvas bags. 

On his way back to his flat, he passed a TV placed on the pavement. Something the shopkeepers did here, for people who gathered around to watch sports events. It had been a habit that caught Vincent by surprise the first time that he saw it, but seeing the light in the children’s eyes had warmed him to the idea, not everyone had the time or money to go to these matches, and there was a feeling of community as people stopped to watch, either murmuring when their teams lost or faltered or jumping with cheer amongst themselves when their teams did well. 

At seeing the children and teenagers in front of the TV, Vincent grinned and waved as he passed by. Only for his stride to hitch, the distinct voices of the English announcers from the Premier League hitting his ears. The names of the teams perennially famous: Manchester United. Liverpool. Chelsea. The players familiar: _Pogba. Lukaku. Morata. Aguero. Kane_ \- and intimate - _Eriksen_. 

The loops of images as the Spurs’ players scored their goals, the puckish grin of Dele as he pumped his fist in the air. Son and Dele doing their handshakes with a flourish. Harry Kane running to the side, sliding on the grass, the other players tumbling onto him and over him like puppies. Another goal from the midfield, the moving images now focused on Christian. 

His face turned upwards towards the floodlights, eyes half closed, arms flung out each side as if he were a child pretending to be a plane. He turned around stopping in front of the away fans, and suddenly as if stirred from a dream, Christian blinked, before he disappeared from being jumped on by the rest of his teammates, everyone sprawling on the sidelines rapturous with glee. Vincent froze, as if hit, because that had been him one, two times. 

Vincent’s fingers tightened on the strap of his backpack as he turned away, walking quickly- almost running -towards his flat.

***

_"I could have joined West Brom or Brighton, What would have happened had I joined one of them? I do not want to think about it. I do not think about it."_ The words came back to him as he opened his computer, his homepage now with Turkish news, and his picture popped up on the sports page. Vincent ignored that, opened his email, his heart slamming against his ribcage as he saw the email from Christian, with just one word in the message title.

 _Hoi_.

Deleted the email before he changed his mind. Looked at the time, knowing it was too late to go out, and he still didn’t know the neighbourhood. His teammates were here, but a fair few were a bit older and settled with their families. He didn’t want his family visiting and seeing him play. At least, not yet- not until he got his head around the city- not until he could trust his form to burn like a slow, steady flame, instead of the sputtering, guttering mess that he barely endured last season. He refused to think about last season. 

Didn’t want to think about this season either, although he searched for the Premier League table - he was still a Spurs’ player after all- noting their position in the top four. Champions’ League places. West Bromwich tenth, Brighton fourteenth.  
Both teams outside of European places, although it was still early in the season, and all the clichés that went with it.  
What would have happened if he’d joined one of them? 

_I do not want think about it._

He’d have still been in the same country as Christian, that’s what. 

_I do not think about it_

With a sharp exhale of breath, Vincent stood up and walked over to the window, leaning against the wall, looking out at the lights of Istanbul.  
Every city had its own energy, he knew. Amsterdam laid back and unpretentious compared to the jittery, seething pace of London. Istanbul more earthy, and exotic the constant heave of people; alien smells that hit him every day with their newness, the unrelenting noise of traffic. The juxtaposition of the ancient ghosts of Empire their traces left behind in Byzantine buildings and influences, cheek and jowl with the modern cars and music of now. A place for the curious who would be open to every experience, good and bad; be it drinking tea offered to you by a shopkeeper while deciding on merchandise, to refusing the insistent affections of the carpet sellers. Jumping out of the way of taxi men who didn’t know what pedestrian crossings or _yield to the right of way_ meant. Someone who wanted to pour yoghurt all over everything, especially the rice pilaf they made here. It would be -- 

At the third time of trying, Vincent just gave up, and allowed his mind to go where it needed to go.

***

**Late July 2016**

Vincent looked at the screen of his phone. Raised his eyes from the screen of his iPhone, looked at the house before him, and looked at the screen again. 

Looked left, looked right- seeing the back of the taxi he’d just slid out of and paid his fare already halfway down the tidy, quiet road. The part of London north of the North Circle, wealthy enough to insulate the dwellers' from the worst of the city's excesses, even the noise. Houses set back from the private road, hidden behind tidy hedges and shady trees, with vehicles of varying models parked in the driveways. 

Now five o'clock in the evening, the sun’s light strong as if it were still two p.m. 

In a field in the mid-distance, behind a low lying fence, he saw men in white just standing around, with a few running back and forth with... were those bats? Vincent consulted his google maps, seeing CRICKET GROUND. Half a kilometre away if he wanted to start walking now, turning right at the next corner. 

Ach, so that’s what that was. 

Vincent frowned, as he realised, there wasn’t a bus stop to be seen. Hoped that this was the right place with the cherry red SUV in the driveway because he didn’t want to be late.

***

“ _Hallo_ ,” the brunette greeted him with a grin, the door opening at first knock. “ _Je moet Vincent zijn?_ ”

For a few seconds, Vincent froze. After the first two weeks over here and just attuned to nothing but listening to and speaking English, the sounds of his native language caught him off guard. 

At the lady’s direct look and raised eyebrows, Vincent felt his cheeks flush, his mouth moving- but no sound coming out- until she repeated the question. In English this time. 

“Hello, are you Vincent?”

“ _Ja, dat ben ik,_ ” he said at the same time.

She laughed, shaking her head, her features thawing from polite distance to genuine warmth. “You’ll get used to it. This. Everything,” she said, opening the door wider, allowing him to come in. “I am in a hurry, so this is hello and goodbye. I’m Anouska. We will speak soon, I’m sure.”

At this, he realised that she had on a light coat over snug leather leggings and white sneakers with the distinct green and red stripes. Her face with light touches of makeup, and a faint hint of perfume. Yes, this was a woman on her way out to meet up with friends, and enjoy the last of the long summer evenings. 

“I--”

Before he got another word, Anouska was off, dark hair high up in a ponytail bouncing around her face, before she opened the door, slid into the vehicle behind the steering well and backed out into the road. A short, sharp wave to him before she zoomed off in the distance, the wheels kicking up loose gravel behind her. 

_Ach._

“Hey, Vincent! Is that you?” a voice called out in Dutch from the end of the passage. The house had a weird layout; where you’d have expected a living room or an open room on your left as you stepped inside was all wall. A narrow passageway leading you into the back of the house, past the staircase which gave access to the rooms upstairs. 

The walls bare, giving way to a recessed area with coat hooks, the floor underfoot made of hardwood, lightly stained to show off the grain. Shrugging out of his light jacket, Vincent placed it on a hook and moved on, half wondering if he should take off his shoes, and with a shrug, took a half step back to the coat hook, toed off his trainers, and kicked them into the corner. 

“ _Ja_ ,” Vincent answered, as he now stepped into a kitchen at the rear of the house. His mum would have loved the room, with one of those oversized iron oven/stoves tucked to the side- an _Aga_ \- if he’d remembered the name correctly, the colour of pale cream. The sinks and kitchen counter overlooking the garden in the back. Enough space for elongated kitchen counters _and_ a dining room table. 

The kitchen counter covered with things that people had obviously brought from home, and made him grin as he slowed down and stopped, looking at the items. Boxes of _Hagelslag_ , bottles of _Calve_ peanut butter, five types of licorice and four types of cheese. _Jonge kaas, Belegen kaas, Jong Belegan Kaas, Oude Kaas_ accompanied with squat bottles of mustard, and the narrower bottles of deep brown _Appelstroop_. 

“I’m in the kitchen,” Vincent said, the words tripping out as a soft sigh. The pangs of homesickness that pricked at him in the oddest of moments still caught him by surprise. Although he was excited to start the next step of his journey, little things like this hooked him and made him stumble in his stride. Absently, he stroked the side of a _Hagelslag_ carton with his index finger. 

Everything, since he'd landed in London, had tripped him up with the _difference_ of it all, even though he had thought himself familiar with such things. Like... English, and now _Hagelslag_. 

“Okay,” the voice came through, sounding halfway distracted, with the faint noises from what he assumed was a TV in the background. “Come through when you’re ready.” 

Vincent shook his head at the repast spread out on the counter, manfully resisting the urge to help himself to some _Hagelslag_ with bread- because he was in preseason mode now- and clean eating the name of the game. Looked around the kitchen, save the food on the counter, everything else clean and hidden behind refrigerator and cupboard doors. Silently, he moved on. 

Padded down the few stairs from the kitchen, into what he presumed was called ‘a den’. 

One entire side of the room with French doors opening out in the garden to the back, with a rolling lawn and low slung benches. In the room itself, a framed map of _Settlers of Catan_ on the opposite wall - _someone was an obsessive_ \- and in the foreground, Jan and Toby seated on the sofa with Mousa in between them, his foot raised on a hassock before him. Toby and Mousa with controllers in hand, all three shouting and swearing at the TV. 

The figure at the far side of the room caught his eye. Seated at a small table, head bowed, headphones at his ears. His form outlined by the light of the sun. Hair done in that quiff that reminded him of Tintin from the comic books he used to read as a child. Unlike Tintin’s cartoonish rounded face however, his features were sharp to the point of stylized; the slope of his forehead shifting to the sharp straight-edged shape of his nose. His eyes downcast, as he looked down at the table before him, his eyelashes fair and fluttering above high cheekbones, and against the brightness of the sun. He absently brought his hand to the sharp point of his chin, and stroked at the scruff of facial hair there, his thumb idly brushing against his lower lip. 

Vincent released a breath he’d been unaware that he’d been holding. Shaky and slow, and he almost laughed. Not because the situation was funny- because it was most assuredly _not_. Unabashedly staring now, wondering why he couldn’t look away, Vincent realised he knew him. 

No, wait, knew of him. 

Christian Eriksen, Dane by birth, played at Ajax for four seasons before leaving for Tottenham Hotspur in 2013. He had always been a talent; a football prodigy come good. He’d shown his talents off at Ajax, but being at Tottenham under Pochettino, playing in the A12 rush of the Premier League only enhanced his skillsets. How he made time slow down and stand still, able to find spaces where none could be seen, exploiting paper-thin gaps in the opposition's midfield and defence, and making them as dangerous as sinkholes. 

Vincent wasn’t stupid, he had done his own due process before coming over to England. He sat down and went through _Transfermarkt_ with pen and paper committing the names and stats of his teammates to memory. Eriksen’s position an AM, like the number 8 in his twitter name, right-footed, and they shared the same athletic outfitter. So he didn’t understand how he felt so _lost_ looking at his new teammate, especially when Christian pushed the headphones off his head, now hanging off his neck as he pushed his chair from the table he’d been seated at. 

“Noise cancelling,” Christian said in Dutch, pointing to his headphones, as he closed the distance between himself and Vincent, hand out for a handshake. “You can’t really hear yourself over this lot, and I need to concentrate. Vincent, right? I’m -”

“Christian is over there doing jigsaw puzzles,” Toby teased, his eyes on the TV as he idly scratched at his neck with the fingers of his left hand. 

Toby wasn’t lying, and looking at the project Christian was working on, it seemed to be in a state. The cover of the jigsaw puzzle had a Pagoda in the foreground, with Chinese blossoms just off centre. Midground, more flower blossoms and in the background, he assumed the landmark to be Mount Fuji. One of those covers with subtle colourings, almost watermarks. Vincent winced because it looked like a project that wouldn’t be finished soon - not by a longshot- the mini-mountain range of jigsaw puzzle pieces hinting at such, and he realised, this wasn’t Christian’s house. Christian shrugged his shoulders, at ease with Toby’s ribbing. 

“That’s a project,” Vincent said, letting Christian’s hand go, as he crossed over to look at the bits Christian completed. Not much by the looks of it, a corner of the Pagoda with the cherry blossoms finished, parts of the picture missing, all puzzle piece shaped. 

“It’s just something to do when I’m over here,” Christian said, his voice threaded with amusement. His hands now in the pockets of his jeans. “Jan is nice enough to let it stand, so it’s here when I feel like getting it finished. Sometimes I’ll spend a lot of time doing this, and for weeks, nothing at all. Depending.”

Vincent reached out and selected a piece scattered in the mini mounds, and taking a guess, pressed it into the middle of the picture, completing the slope of one of the curved roofs in the Pagoda. Half impressed with himself when it fit. 

“Oh wow,” Christian laughed, “I’d been looking for that,” he quipped, reaching over for another piece and slotted it beside the jigsaw puzzle piece Vincent had just fitted. “So that’s where that goes. Great.”

Vincent raised his head from the jigsaw puzzle, relieved to have made a good impression; stunned at his reaction to someone he barely knew. “I--” he started, only for Jan to cut in. 

“Wait,” Jan paused the game, as he turned around, his head popping up over the top of the couch. “You two are _not_ going to stand there and talk about jigsaw puzzles. We’re not having it. It’s bad enough when Christian does it. Especially the two thousand pi-”

“Says the _Settlers of Catan_ fanatic,” Christian cut in, his tone sly. “I won’t tell Vincent about the blankets in your room dedi--”

“Enough.” Mousa interjected, doing the American sign for timeout; palm horizontally pressed against the tips of fingers on the vertical hand. “Vincent is here, and we don’t want him already making plans for the January transfer window. Don’t be crazy.”

“No,” Vincent shook his head, unable to stop smiling when he realised _again_ where he’d landed himself. From AZ Alkmaar to Tottenham, playing with people that he’d only read about before, hoarding the news of them like gold, but finding them as straightforward as he’d hoped and expected. “I’m happy to be here.”

“Wait until the Christmas fixtures,” Toby said, pausing the game, his head peeking over the back of the sofa, his eyes huge and blue. Even with the sound from the TV off, the room still had noise, with everyone cross-talking over each other. 

“Everyone hates those,” Mousa agreed, getting to his feet with a wince. If you hadn’t been looking, didn’t see the slight narrowing of his eyes, or the minute thinning of lips, you wouldn’t have known. “There have been players who’ve gone out of their way to a red card just to take the three-match ban and go on holiday.”

“I--” Vincent started, partly taken aback. He’d never played over Christmas break, but the thought of just not wanting to play struck him as strange. “Is it as hard as they say?”

Toby gave an exaggerated shiver, dropping the game handset as he too got to his feet, and stretched. “It’s just that--- “ he frowned, thought for a minute. “There are easier things to do.”

“Now that Vincent is here, we can start the food,” Jan clapped his hands, getting everyone’s attention. “ _Allez_.”

“Best idea you’ve had all day,” Mousa quipped, as they all padded up the few stairs from the den into the kitchen, Vincent finding himself coming up the rear with Christian as they trailed behind the others. 

“Christmas fixtures aren’t that bad, not really,” Christian paused, his stare direct, his voice even. Vincent stared long enough to get the shape of his eyes (almond, tipped up at the edges, heavy-lidded) and the colour (blue-green). “In a perverse way, they are the best part of the season. It’s ahh...” Christian stopped, switching to English, “Very _bull and bear_ in terms of the points? Like, stock market terms I mean.”

Vincent understood. Sort of. Three matches on the trot in the space of seven days, nine points could send you rocketing into the stratosphere of top places, or tumbling into the depths of relegation. 

“It’s fantastic to watch,” Christian’s smile now faint, with a bit of mockery. He spoke good Dutch, but with a slur at the edges of the words, as if he’d just woken up. “But when you’re in the heart of it, it’s just extremely hard. Pre Match prep, game time, recovery-- from once a week most times, to three times in nine days--- it’s intense. You ignore everything except for results and the next match.”

“I’m-” Vincent started, his eyes not leaving Christian’s. “ I think I’d like to experience that.”

Christian raised his eyebrows, gave a little nod. “You will, soon enough.” 

The conversation between them done, but Vincent still couldn’t find it in himself to move. Both of them stood on stairs in the little passageway, Christian leaning against the wall, his arms tucked behind him, one socked foot resting on a stair nearest to the kitchen, the other one braced against the wall. 

“ _Ach_ ,” Toby called, out in Dutch. “Come on, the two of you. I swear, Chris,” he started, wagging a finger in Christian’s direction, “if you have him thinking about collecting jigsaw puzzles-”

“It’s interesting,” Vincent cut in, voice warm and conversational, “those two thousand piece ones, and how similar the shapes are,” he shot a grin in Christian’s direction. Christian half coughed, hiding his mouth behind his fist, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Vincent laughed too, their camaraderie warm and instant. After a few seconds, Christian answered, angling his head closer to Vincent’s, joining in on the ruse, “I do have to get them custom ordered but you kno--”

“ _CHRISTIAN!!!_ ” Mousa, Toby and Jan all chorused as one, looking up from the counter where all the foods were, each man in the midst of clearing the foodstuffs from the counter and putting them away where they should go, be it fridge or cupboards. 

“ _Fine_.” Christian reported in a huffy tone. At Vincent’s look, he shook his head, his grin still there, so it meant that he wasn’t as pissed off as he might have let on. “I might have had a thing for puzzles once,” he said to Vincent, his voice warm, and soft. Raising his voice and infusing it with a bit more steel, he played to the room. “They never let me forget it.”

“But the one -?” Vincent pointed in the direction of the room they’d just left. 

“We had a-” Mousa stopped, a jar of peanut butter in one hand. With the other he snapped his fingers as if prompting a memory, and used the English word, “ _an intervention_? ” at Jan’s nod he continued, “it was getting out of control.”

“Long story short,” Christian said, as he strode into the kitchen, his sentences now distinctly British, “I do one puzzle at a time, and it gets rotated amongst this lot.”

“Right,” Toby clapped his hands, as he disappeared behind the counter, the clang of pots and pans as they bounced against each other over against his question: “ _Moules - frites?_ Or are you allergic to shellfish, Vincent?”

“Yes,” Vincent said, aiming a smile in Toby’s direction, as Toby popped up from behind the counter with a large saucepan in hand and a potato fryer in another. “Yes to _Moules-frites_ and no, I’m not allergic.”

***

“Pochettino wanted me to stay,” Bobby said.

Vincent didn’t say a word, just took a long sip of his beer. Their surroundings fading into the bubble of their conversation.

This wasn’t Bobby’s fault, Vincent just wanted to know when he himself stumbled into a sort of emotional masochism, if not reflecting on a year gone by that he had no need to reflect on, or now, listening to Bobby - Roberto Soldado!- even after his wretched time in England, before moving on to Villarreal, telling him that Pochettino wanted him to stay. 

“Seriously?” Vincent couldn’t help the scorn that tripped out, expressed the ugliness of his disbelief. 

Bobby, being Bobby, only sipped at his beer. The expression on his face hidden behind dark glasses, because even with the weather, the sun still had a bit of a glare this time of year. 

_Tuborg_ , he’d recommended the local beer to Vincent, both of them sharing a table at a restaurant by the seaside. Or so it advertised, but the reality was a bit misleading. Near enough to see the ocean if you narrowed your eyes until they almost shut, but the beer and food were good and cheap. In the middle of the week, it was less local and more tourist trade, but still cheap, and the sort of tourists who wouldn’t recognise footballers from the local football team anyway. 

Shortly after Vincent blew Bobby off with his rudeness, he felt awful, at least awful enough to make amends. In so far as to send Bobby a message, and to share a beer. It wasn’t as if they were friends, and Robin might have suited Vincent’s sharp worldview than Bobby’s but Bobby - he had yet to do anything that made Vincent’s life harder- rather than easier. Also, Bobby played for Tottenham Hotspur, and Robin hadn’t. Bobby knew the personalities involved when they spoke, although Vincent took great pains in not saying Christian’s name. 

“Seriously,” Bobby repeated, his voice a bit mean, which made Vincent like him slightly more than he did before. “I left Spurs because I had to, but at least the gaffer wanted me to stay, eh? I don’t think you can say the same.”

An unwilling smile tugged at the corner of Vincent’s lips. Bobby might have been noble and bruised, but not broken. Vincent could respect that, and it made the questions easier to ask, without having to wonder if Bobby would fall apart. 

“Why did you say no, then?” Vincent asked, “Tottenham is a beautiful club,” he continued. Despite everything that had happened, it didn’t change the facts. 

“It didn’t fit,” Bobby rolled his shoulders, before sipping at his beer again. “Not every league fits a player, Vincent.”

“Does this league fit?”

“You’re now first choice striker, you tell me.”

***

Vincent liked training. The strictness of routine, from meal prep, to exercise, to tactics. The manager liked him well enough, both of them getting by with reasonable English. Vincent’s at an intermediate level and Kocaman’s English good enough to be understood and acted upon.

“You’re doing well,” Kocaman said, tapping his pen against the desk that separated them both. 

The system was a familiar 4-2-3-1, with a striker playing at the top, and his midfielders hustling as much as he did. 

“Thanks,” Vincent said, not knowing what else to say, because he’d been used to a bit of praise with a bit of criticism in the middle cushioned by praise at the end. Not from Pochettino - because he didn’t have the time- but from other coaching staff. 

“Is there...” Kocaman started, mouth hidden behind steepled fingers, his elbows resting on the table. 

“Anything I need, you mean?” Vincent worried his lower lip with his teeth. “No,” he said, before shifting to the edge of his chair. “Can I go now?”

“Yes.”

***

“I don’t miss Tottenham,” Vincent said, as he sat beside Bobby on the grass at the end of their training and warm down.

“I don’t miss Pochettino, and him not thinking that I’m good enough, I don’t even miss the club,” he continued, tugging at the grass near his knee. Wondering why he kept saying this to Bobby, and why Bobby just sat there and listened. Bobby’s link to Tottenham even more tenuous than Vincent’s because Bobby was a wholly a Fenerbahce player now. Vincent ... wasn’t. 

“But I miss the people,” he admitted. 

“Anyone in particular?” Bobby asked. “I know the personnel changed a lot when Pochettino came in, and I left soon after, so I might not know the same people you do. Kyle Walker’s left, no? I don’t think I knew Alderweireld, he came in when I left. What’s he like?”

“Professional,” Vincent said, tugging at the blades of grass, and they came out at the roots. He rolled the blades with the soil back and forth between his fingers. 

“Ah, well,” Bobby sighed, stretching his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. “Every club needs those. I remember Eriksen,” he said, “he was nice, and not ... what’s the word? _Arsey_ about it.”

Vincent looked away from Bobby towards the buildings stationed at the end of the field. Not seeing them at all, but Enfield training grounds in England a good thousand miles away and a few months ago.

***

“I’m failing,” Vincent dropped his head in his hands, seated on the low slung benches of the locker room, his voice ragged from uneven emotion. “There’s no other way to say it.”

“You probably just need more support,” Christian said, in that comforting manner that came naturally to him. Not the soft tones of pity that other people unwittingly employed, but not the too false brisk notes which also grated. Vincent closed his eyes against the sensation of Christian’s arm sliding around his shoulders. 

“You have a lot to be going with,” Christian said, ever helpful, and his expressions very British. Even when he spoke Dutch, they just snuck in there, as incongruous as wearing a pair of muddy water boots with silk pyjamas, but it didn't come off as odd-- just his way. “New league, new language. It’s what? Three o’ clock now and we’re done for the day. Mousa is doing --”

“Doing?”

“You know what, it doesn’t matter,” Christian said, his tones brisk with firm decision. “Let’s go to mine.”

***

If Vincent had a word for Christian’s house, it would be _Scandanavian_. Very bright, very tidy, very _blonde_ , from wooden floors to furnishings. The only pops of colour in the house were the framed art pieces on the walls; pictures of himself, his family and wherever in the world he chose to holiday. On the coffee table, in front of the sofa, another two thousand piece jigsaw puzzle as a work in progress. This time, one of the Eiffel Tower at night, standing proudly over the dazzling night vistas of Paris.

Vincent couldn’t help it, being drawn to the pieces of the puzzles just _there_ , and foolishly happy when he found a piece that slotted in there just right. 

“Why?” he asked later, sipping at a cup of hot chocolate Christian had made for them both. It was too early to eat, and hot chocolate -- Vincent would never say no. 

“Why what?” Christian answered as they sat at the table in the dining room, sipping at their mugs of chocolate. 

“The jigsaw puzzles?”

Christian shrugged, with the confused expression someone might have if you had asked them, _Why do you eat food?_

“I don’t know, it’s---” he started, his teeth worrying his lower lip in thought. “It’s--I want to say it’s an old habit, but it started after I arrived in England.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Christian’s gaze drifted to his cup. “After Ajax, I got accustomed to winning every year-” at Vincent’s huff, because old allegiances never died- Christian smiled. A slow sly, slide of a grin that should have been illegal because of the things it did to Vincent’s pulse. “Anyway,” Christian went on, not realising that somehow Vincent again had to will himself to exhale and then inhale once more, kickstarting his heart into working again. “Coming from Ajax to Spurs was a... culture shock. To go from winning to well...” 

As circumspect as any well-bred Dane, Christian rolled his shoulders and handwaved the rest of it away. AVB and Tim Sherwood and their management shambles. “We had some hard times before Pochettino rocked up. And -- doing puzzles just seemed to be a good way to decompress. So I started with where’s Wally? Then did Sudoku but jigsaw puzzles just ... fit.”

“Should I start doing them, then?”

“That’s up to you,” Christian tapped his fingers against the thick sides of the ceramic mug. “Everyone has their ways of coping. H,” - and that stood for Harry, as in Harry Kane - “just puts in more time in training and golfing.”

“Christian--” Vincent began, sliding his hand across the table, running the tips of his fingers over Christian’s knuckles, taking in the delicate skin stretched over bone. Christian looked up, face lit with that expectant glow you got when you were doing quite well in life, waiting for someone to ask after your health. 

“Yes?”

“I do like you,” Vincent admitted in the bright, cheerful kitchen. 

Christian frowned for a few seconds before he smiled again. “I’d hope so,” he said.

***

“Christian is a great guy,” Bobby said, his voice tugging Vincent into the present. “Came in, worked hard, and helped you if he could. How did you find H?”

Vincent drew his knees close to his torso, wrapped his arms around his shins as if chilled. 

“I wish I could say that he was...” Vincent wrinkled his nose, “what’s that word you used again? _Arsey_? He wasn’t, and I had no problems with him.”

“Same,” Bobby hiccoughed a laugh with sadness at its edges. Vincent thought that if he had it in him to join in right now, it would sound the same way.

***

**Mid March, 2017**

“I don’t hate H, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Vincent whispered to Christian as they walked along the beach near the Barcelona port.

It had been the day after the Millwall match. Somehow in the midst of the madness of the PL matches, Tottenham Hotspur found themselves with a clutch of days, and Pochettino decided on a spot of warm weather training in Barcelona. Vincent wasn’t going to say no, especially since after you did the time asked, and the odd spot for Spurs’ Youtube channel, you had your evenings free. 

Somehow, Vincent fell into the Ajax group. Mousa a fellow AZ alum, but he’d spent most of his playing career in England; at Fulham and now at Tottenham Hotspur, and he and Jan were close friends to the point where you forgot Mousa’s allegiances lay. 

“I know,” Christian stopped, dragging his hoodie over his head because the wind had now picked up, and it felt chilly, despite the sun. “I don’t think you have intentions to run around with a tire iron and kneecap him.” Christian’s eyes narrowed as if an ugly thought came to him. “You don’t, do _you_?”

“ _No_.” Vincent answered, shocked by the implications, and wondered what drove Christian to think about him in those terms. Just as he was about to leap into an impassioned defence of his own character, Christian cracked up. 

Christian snickered, covering his mouth with a hand. 

“You--” Vincent shook his head, casting around for that phrase people tended to use. No, not _knob_ , although that was tempting. _Melt_ , even more so, but that wasn’t the word. “ _Wind up merchant_ ,” he hissed, but Christian doubled over, holding his middle, laughing as if he’d played the best prank in the world. “Y-you should have seen your f-face!” 

“That’s -” Vincent stopped, his voice short with the shock of everything. “That’s not funny,” he finished, absolutely furious. 

“Wait, Vince-” Sobering up now, Christian straightened, reaching for him, and although it was a wrench to pull away, Vincent did so. He half walked, half jogged towards the trio of Toby, Moussa and Jan, ignoring Christian’s calls for him to stop.

***

The great thing about staying in a training centre?

You could swim anytime you wanted. Not that Pochettino expected his charges to go wild and cannonball in the pool for the entire night, but if you were say... to linger at the pool around eight pm, he wouldn’t tear a strip off you. There were no lifeguards to hand though, so you were on your own. 

Vincent was a good swimmer. 

Not as strong as his mum- who had represented her country internationally long before he'd been born- nor his sister who followed in her wake. He liked the pool well enough, arms and legs slicing through the weight of water as he breaststroked the way his mum taught him. Textbook perfect, his body hovering over the depth of the Olympic sized swimming pool. The only drawback to swimming? After ten laps, your mind started to wonder, because it could be deathly boring, hearing the muffled splash of water, the unrelenting white noise of it. 

He didn’t have to concentrate on form, breathing, laps nor time, just swim. Noting the high roof and the diving board way in the distance. The tiered seats on the sides, made for people to turn out to watch swim heats, like he used to do with his sister until football consumed him. He continued swimming, blinking the water out of his eyes as he saw a figure seated on one of the bleachers. 

_Christian_ , Vincent thought, knowing the outline of him far too well, but kept on swimming. For a moment, Vincent considered just swimming and waiting him out, but Christian- Christian was as patient and as wily as they came. The phone slipping out of his pocket as he sat down to read put paid to that, the light illuminating his features. Vincent spat out water, as he grimly calculated the figure of his wait. An iPhone battery would last as long as three hours with 3D gaming. Christian would not be playing games in 3D. 

Vincent lifted up a hand, looked at his pruned fingers, thought about tomorrow’s call time. He wasn’t spending three hours in this. 

“You shouldn’t swim alone,” Christian’s voice rang out in the empty auditorium, but not due to him shouting. Christian only raised his voice when he was on the field of play, and rarely. 

“I’m a good swimmer.”

“Still.”

Not much of an answer, but Vincent wasn’t going to be able to wait out Christian anyway. Allowing himself to sink beneath the surface, noting the lights along the sides of the pool casting the pool into an eerie blue glow. 

“That was a shitty thing I said today,” Christian’s voice washed over him as soon as Vincent hauled himself from the water and onto the edge of the pool, his muscles twitching from the aftermath of his exertions. He’d been one to always swim hard, going for speed over timing, never mind his mother trying to talk to him about pacing and tactics. 

“Yeah,” he said, getting to his feet, grabbing for his towel and started rubbing himself dry. “It was.”

Christian on his feet now, and a bit more dressed than him, anyway, in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans that had seen better days. 

“I’m sorry for saying it,” Christian said, his hands swiping at the air as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “I just -- I didn’t want to go to bed before apologising.”

“Okay,” Vincent now rubbed at his hair with the towel, although it might have been a lost cause. He was too wet and the towel too thin. 

“Okay,” Christian repeated. His voice so even, you wouldn’t know if he resented Vincent’s lack of response to his apology, or realised that Vincent _might_ have his reasons for not accepting it post haste. “ _Goede nacht_ , Vincent.”

 _Godverdomme_ , Vincent thought, tugging his shirt over his half dry torso, and half hopping into his jeans. “Christian-” he started, grabbing his trainers, and running after his teammate, half hopping, half slipping them on, laces be damned. “Wait.”

Christian stopped just outside of the complex, a few metres from their hotel, his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans as he waited for Vincent to catch up. Vincent’s thoughts warring along the lines of embittered and something completely wholly opposite; _I still like you so very much, you asshole_. 

“I’ve failed before, you know,” Vincent began, apropos of nothing, when he straightened up, and oh, he forgot the towel at the side of the pool, but it didn't matter. “Released from Feyenoord, dropped to Almere in the second tier-- but I came back. A season later, I’m at AZ and Spurs come along. All of that to say, I think I can do this,” he finished, stepping closer to Christian, “I just need a chance.”

“Vince-” Christian breathed, his eyes wide, and Vincent looked in his friend’s face, hoping against hope not to find pity there. Sympathy, he could live with, but not pity. He felt almost giddy with relief when he found the former emotion there, Christian's eyes widening with compassion and only on him. 

“I tell myself, _komt goed_ , like a mantra, like a--- it’s worked before,” Vincent pressed on, his voice hoarse with the strain of keeping the frustration at bay. “It's got me this far. It can work again, don’t you think?”

“ _Ja_ ,” Christian’s arms around him now, Vincent not even realising how shaky and feverish he had been until Christian pulled him close. Christian’s body hot and hard, as he rocked them both. “Of _course_ ,” he soothed, as Vincent tucked his face into the hollow of Christian’s neck. 

They stayed out there like that for a long time.

***

The last match finished, Vincent clearing out his locker on the cusp of the International break.

“Good luck,” Bobby said, and for the first time since Vincent had gotten to know Bobby, he took the comment in the spirit meant. 

“Thanks,” Vincent grabbed his backpack, ready to go. He would have said, _You too_ , but Bobby hadn’t been called up to The Selection for a long time, and _La Roja_ didn’t need half as much luck as _Oranje_ did. 

“Not that you should, but will you be watching any other World Cup matches?” Bobby asked, as they walked out of the locker room towards the carpark. 

“I-” Vincent stopped, thought for a bit. “Probably Belgium, they do have a chance. Alderweireld and Vertonghen are one of the best defences in the world right now. But they’ll be playing the same time as us, so I might get caught up.”

“England?”

“No.” He didn’t care for the country very much at the minute. 

“Okay,” Bobby raised his hand to shoulder height and gestured in the general direction of his car. “I’m parked that way. Do you need a lift?”

“No.”

***

Vincent ended up watching Denmark's World Cup qualification game in the end. Sat on his bed buddha style, laptop balancing on his knees, his eyes tracking Christian, and nothing but Christian. Fist pumping as Christian dropped his shoulder, did a delicious feint and shimmy, shaking off three defenders before slotting the ball past the goalie fast and low.

He’d almost upended the computer from his lap with his glee. 

Looking at Christian running away, giving himself to the ecstasy of clinching three points for his country, before he’d get that self-conscious look across his face, a “Why am I doing this?” half smile of bemusement. Not now though, Christian too pleased and proud now to slip back into his usual studied reserve. 

Christian’s innate reserve as constant as armour, and something near unshakable. It could only be shifted by strong emotions, like the first time they’d kissed and every time thereafter. 

Christian dropping by his flat, late July 2017, before the transfer window shut, to tell him that Wimmer was leaving. 

They’d had cabbage with caraway seeds, and somehow, the shoe had dropped with Christian. Vincent remembered the surprise in his eyes, because he blinked and finally _understood_ the expression writ across Vincent’s face for the first time.

***

“Christian-” Vincent’s voice no higher than a hushed whisper of awe, his thumb tracing the outline of Christian's lower lip, something he’d done many a time in torrid daydreams. It wasn’t a patch on this; the warm grain of Christian’s skin under his thumb, the nap of his facial hair tickling the tips of his fingers.

Time standing still, Christian’s body under his, pressed into the sofa, lean and pumping heat like a banked furnace; his eyes wide, the black of pupils blown, the blue of his eyes a thinner rim. _Please_ , Vincent mouthed, a prayer to whichever deity on hand to answer his request. This past year, God seemed to be constantly busy, and had yet to get back in touch. 

Vincent made to pull away, half ready to accept that -this and them? - would never happen, and ready to make his peace with that. Christian’s fingers tangled in the fabric of his t-shirt, their eyes meeting. Their faces only a breath apart, he breathed “Yes”, before tracing along the seam of Christian’s lips with his tongue, where his thumb and forefinger had been. Christian’s lips parting under his, their tongues sliding against each other, their kisses slick and hot. Christian nipped at his lower lip, releasing it bit by bit with his teeth before initiating another kiss; deeper this time, Vincent immediately light headed, because all of his blood shooting southwards to his groin. 

After that, it was so easy to get lost in the textures and heady scents of Christian. The pulse at his throat beating strong and hot, the full body _shudder_ when Vincent got his hands on Christian’s _skin_ , already heated and sweat slicked as he slipped his hands under his shirt. 

Vincent’s hands now at the waistband of Christian’s jeans and underwear. Judging by the evidence, Christian wanted it just as badly as he did, making him dizzy from the pleasure of it. When Christian’s hands grabbed his wrists, Vincent raised his eyes, ready to beg to continue, but again, ready to back off at the slightest of resistance. He’d just... set the water to cold and drown himself in the shower if he had to. 

Christian wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, the action hypnotising Vincent. In a voice ragged and uneven and not his - but so _his_ , Christian breathed, “Don’t stop.”

Later, much later, with Christian finally in his bed- naked and willing- they went further. The kiss they shared a bit filthy, just like Christian’s sly taunt, _“Wat? Aan mijn lul zuigen? “_ the surprise flashing across his features when Vincent admitted, “Yes, that as well.”

“Why now?” Christian’s eyes wide and questioning in the dim light of the room, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights outside. 

“I’ll be leaving,” and for the first time, Vincent truly accepted the truth of the matter. That this situation had no happy ending; time and circumstance already conspiring to drag him away from the club and this moment, but not before he made his mark. Taking full advantage of tracing with hands and tongue, because he only had his imagination to go on before tonight. Now he had memories worth storing away: the thrum of Christian’s pulse under his wash of tongue, his sobs and broken moans filling the air as Vincent discovered secret pleasures that came as a surprise to them both. Christian’s limbs and muscles well formed and pleasing, as they shifted and twitched under skin, the gilt thatch of his hair on its surface standing at attention. 

His torso lean, his abdomen flat and tight as a drum, and for all you thought Christian might have been a regular sized lad in civilian clothing he wasn't, not really. His thighs heavy and powerful, his quads defined and beautiful. Vincent mapped the pleasure spots of his body with the thoroughness and discipline of a cartographer; finding areas that made Christian crumble soft as chalk, like the silk of skin on the insides of his thigh. Other areas as rigid as marble, which made him rack with tremors, his broken moans scoring the air. _Christiaan_ , Vincent whispered against his skin, as if praying. His hand on Christian’s hip holding him fast, mouth and other hand on and around the base Christian's cock as he tasted the salt and musk of him. Felt the weight of him in his jaw. Christian roiling and shaking apart around and under him bit by bit. 

Another shift, Christian dragging Vincent up and up- their noses bumping against each other's, their lips meeting. A gasp stuttering from Vincent's lips his eyes squeezing shut as Christian's fingers closed around his heated throbbing flesh. Slicked skin already sensitised by stimuli, Christian's harsh breathing and Dutch curses in his ear, the closeness of air around them, it was all too much. Vincent unable to hold on; harsh, ragged moans escaping from his mouth, claws of pleasure swiped through him. 

After, when both fell apart, gasping, Vincent gathered Christian together and made them whole again. 

Exhausted, Vincent and Christian collapsed into each other, not caring of their stink and exertions. 

“I just want to sink into your skin,” he murmured, nuzzling the space behind the delicate shell of Christian’s ear. The air redolent with their sex and musk. _I want to have your smell all over me_ , he made to say, before Christian's hands were on _him_. Somehow leading to another kiss, absolutely _carnal_ this time. Christian sucking their shared tastes from his tongue, Vincent's body quaking with the fervour of it all. _”Christiaan,”_ he whispered before they kissed again, hot, wet and with tongue, their eyes closing against everything else not them.

***

Once they’d started, they couldn’t stop; one of the more memorable times making out in the shed at the bottom of Toby’s garden, under the guise of retrieving beer. The dim lighting and privacy too tempting not to steal a kiss, only for Vincent to feel the edges of the beer cartons pressing into his back, between his shoulder blades and against his spine. Christian in his arms laughing in between their kisses, and on a breath, Vincent pressed their foreheads together.

“What’s so funny?” he stroked Christian’s cheek, as Christian turned his face into his palm, eyes closing for a second, only a second. 

“Toby,” Christian’s lashes fluttered, his eyes now open and solemn in the dim light, and on him. “He warned me, _Don’t get involved_ ,” he had the stern grumpiness of Toby’s accent down to a T, making Vincent laugh too. “ Now,” Christian sighed, eyes soft and heavy-lidded. “Look at the state of us.”

“Are you--” Vincent didn't want to finish the question, but he had to know. “Sorry?”

Christian _beamed_. The smile on his face so brilliant and open, it chased the cold sweats of fear and doubt away from Vincent’s heart. “No,” Christian shook his head, his laughter light and genuine. “No matter what happens, I’m not sorry at all. I just wish-" his voice wistful, his smile dimming a bit- "we had more time."

Vincent opened his mouth, to say something, to comfort. Nothing came out, not even assurances. Christian threw an arm around his shoulders, drawing him close, his head resting against Christian's shoulder, not saying a word. 

***

**Two days before the close of the transfer window September 01, 2017**

“On second thought,” Toby said at lunch a few days later, slouched in the canteen chair, his arms folded across his chest. “I wish you two had stuck to collecting jigsaw puzzles.”

“Sorry?” Vincent said, wondering how that word just... came and sat in his mouth, ready to be popped out at this time. It wasn’t even an apology, just... he didn’t understand. The use of the word worked for a lot of things, like speaking with the Eredivisie contingent after training. Vincent half distracted and extremely disappointed with the talks he’d had with Pochettino, who refused to budge from his stance. The situation now beyond breaking point, Vincent realising that he'd have to go out on loan, because there was no space for him here. As such, Vincent now unable to fully focus on the matter at hand. 

“You and Christian? _Seriously_?” Jan whispered in Dutch. They were seated at the table at the far side of the canteen, their lunches half eaten in front of them. Normally, they all spoke English out of respect for Pochettino and his desire not to have cliques in the team, but today was no ordinary day. Today, it seemed that Jan, Toby and Moussa decided that needs must. Christian nowhere to be seen, and before he even asked, Toby filled him in. “Ben needed to ask him something.”

“That’s - none of your business,” Vincent said flatly, irrationally angry at Ben for speaking to Christian somewhere where he couldn’t see, and --- yes, that made no sense, because Christian knew Ben long before they came to know each other. 

“ _Nee_ ,” Jan shook his head furiously, Mousa and Toby’s mouths dropping open in shock around the table, horrified at their suspicions being confirmed, Vincent knew. It would have been comical if it weren’t so damned sad. 

“That’s not the correct answer, is it?” Mousa asked rhetorically, pushing his fruit salad to one side. 

“You know you’re going to leave before the transfer window shuts,” Toby hissed. “Why would you do this to Christian, hell... _yourselves_?”

“I--” Vincent started, the words wanting to spill out, but he couldn’t tell them before he told Christian, it wouldn’t be right. So he settled on the less fractious but far less satisfying answer of, “I don’t know.”

“ _Godverdomme_ ,” Jan swore in disbelief. “I mean, seriously?”

Vincent bitter too, because all three of them seemed to be acting as Christian had been an innocent party in all this, with Vincent as the seducer stealing his virginity and heart. Now after getting what he wanted, they acted as if he were going to disappear into the sunset or whatever. 

“Not into the sunset,” Mousa pointed out helpfully, Vincent realising belatedly that he’d just said all of this aloud. He couldn't even have it in him to fume at his latest cock-up; just another embarrassment on top of everything here so far in the past year. “Just wherever will take you before the transfer window closes.”

Beyond pissed off now, Vincent pushed himself away from their table with trembling hands, and got to his feet. It took all his control for his voice to be steady, and even then, it shook at the edges. “ _Flikker op_ ,” he hissed, stalking away.

***

In the end, the joke had been on him.

He would be leaving after all. 

If it had been a match, the decision would have been in stoppage time. Got the word on Thursday that he’d be flying out on Friday. 

By the time he’d gotten around to saying goodbye to Christian, he couldn’t have done as much as he wanted to, nor said as much as he needed to. He wanted more time, but Christian couldn’t even spend the entire night. Vincent himself had to be at the airport at 05:00 am to catch a 07:00 am flight, so he'd have to be ready for 04:10 am. Christian also had his own life to be going with, training in the morning to prep for upcoming matches. In the end, he had Christian crowded against his front room door of his flat, his hands in his hair, their mouths a breath from each other, he wanted to tell him so _many_ things. He couldn’t say the words what he wanted to say, because it wouldn’t have changed their situation, or made matters any better. Swallowing everything, Vincent nuzzled Christian's neck, breathing in the scent of him one last time, mixed in with the woody notes of Vincent's body wash. He closed his eyes against the gentle press of Christian's fingers carding his hair, and shuddered out a sigh.

After a while, he spoke. Fell back on, “I wish I’d said yes to either West Brom or Brighton.”

“That’s water under the bridge now, Vincent. This is the situation we’re working with.” Christian’s voice strong, his viewpoint resolute, but his face told how he much he hurt on Vincent's behalf. The strangest thing, how easily you could read the emotions in Christian's face, once you knew how and where to look. 

Another kiss, and over the thousands of kisses they’d shared in the short time of _this_ \- this one different. Soft with the fullness of feeling, a kiss as an end in itself. Not a prelude to something more carnal, or to gauge interest, just something to be accepted as what it was. One that made Christian’s eyes flutter closed, his arm warm and heavy against the nape of Vincent's neck. Vincent's hand against Christian's cheek, his mouth on his, tongues sliding and curling around each other. Intimate enough for their bodies to link, from faces to groin, for him to feel Christian’s heartbeat a steady thrum under his palm. How odd, to lose himself in Christian, only to find the best of himself again, with the flash of optimism he thought he had forfeit. 

“I want to come back,” he dared to say aloud, as soon as they broke away, yet still close enough for their noses to touch. “I don’t know what next year will be but--” he stopped talking as he felt the press of Christian’s fingers against his lips. 

“ _Komt goed_ ,” Christian said, the expression on his face thoughtful, his eyes huge and earnest. 

“ _Komt goed_ ,” Vincent repeated against Christian's fingers, and in that moment, he believed.

***

Back to now, and Vincent clicking out of the linked stream, and into his email. Called up the message from the trash, and read.

 _Hi,_ it said, although the message title had been in Dutch, the body of the message written in simple, straightforward English. _Have been watching you in the Süper Lig. You’re playing so well! If we footballers were allowed to gamble, I’d stake money on you being goal scorer of the year. Happiness is a good look on you, Vincent. I’m sorry you couldn’t find it here. Good luck with everything. No matter what happens, I hope we speak soon._

_Warm regards,_

_Christian_

Vincent closed the lid of his laptop, and without thinking, took out his phone and sent a message to Christian via Whatsapp. It seemed more intimate than email somehow, and a bit more urgent. 

_Whatever happiness I found there_ , Vincent texted in Dutch, _I had it with you._ Sent the message before he had a chance to change his mind, and pressed the edge of the phone against his lips. Looked at the time, and realised that he had to get ready for bed. 

 

Fin

**Author's Note:**

>   * Hand waving Istanbul's _everything_ , I'm truly sorry. All errors are my own . Any truly horrendous ones, flag me, and I'll change it
>   * Itsadrizzit, this came upon one like a fever, another fic about your rare pair you don't have to write
>   * Sorry about the dodgy Dutch *flails helplessly*. It's a thing
>   * You don't need to read [The Space Inbetween](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12043176) in order to understand this one, although this fic can be seen as a sort of a bookend to that one 
>   * I suck at titles, fam. I might change this one. Knowing me, I won't (because I suck at titles) but hold on to the promise anyway
>   * Tried to have a Dutch outlook but erm, I'm British to the core, it seems. Buffoonery and taking the piss are only a sentence away, so I must avail myself of it
> 


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Komt Goed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13432830) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




End file.
